


Clever Girl

by zebrahat (stormcoming)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal penetration with wand, Blackmail, F/F, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, and definitely eroticized, definitely rape, non-consensual anal fingering, nothing dubious about it, revenge porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormcoming/pseuds/zebrahat
Summary: Pansy and Millicent decide to teach Hermione a lesson.





	Clever Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fantasy story which eroticizes rape. Pure smut. It's not a consensual situation, so please don't read it if that's not your cup of tea. There's definitely room to imagine that this is a pre-arranged role play, although the story itself doesn't suggest that's the case at all.

Every ripple and splash soothes Hermione’s frayed mind, slows the dip and flit— from Arithmancy equations to the complicated bit of wandwork she’s yet to master for her upcoming Charms exam, and oh, she must remember to check on her Potions project—and Hermione tips her head back with a low groan, sinking deeper into the frothy pink water. 

After a long soak, Hermione’s thoughts slur, her mind quietened for the moment. She pulls her favourite blue t-shirt over her head, faded plaid pyjama bottoms sitting low on her hips. It’s too muggy for her dressing gown, Hermione decides, shrinking it absently and stowing her wand in her washbag. Yawning so widely her jaw pops, Hermione makes her way out of the Prefects’ Bathroom. 

“Well look who it is, Mill.”

“Why, it’s tattle-tell Granger.”

Hermione stiffens. Her loosened limbs tense up on instant high-alert, her hard-won peace disturbed as Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode emerge from the shadows and block Hermione’s path. They’re simply school bullies, Hermione reminds herself. Childish and spoiled, both of them. As though she hasn’t faced worse than two stuck-up Slytherin brats. 

Pansy’s beginning to grow into the severity of her blunt black bob, Hermione thinks, and her pug nose would be almost charming if not for the semi-permanent scowl distorting her features. Millicent’s all grown up too, her heft turned to muscle, shoulders wide and powerful arms folded across her chest. 

Unconsciously echoing the confidence of Millicent’s broad stance, Hermione straightens up, shifting her weight into the balls of her feet and marching toward them. It’s nearly curfew, but there’s plenty of time to get back to the dorms. Perhaps a mug of chamomile, that would pair nicely with one of the more salacious crime thrillers she likes to puzzle over before bed. Hermione reaches for her wand, it’s here, it was right here— 

“Lost something, Granger?” 

A pit gapes open in Hermione’s stomach. 

“No,” she says slowly. “You’ve taken my wand.” Her lower back is beginning to sweat through the thin cotton of her nightshirt. Perhaps she’d run the bath a touch too hot.

“Give it back,” she says, but of course, they don’t. 

Panicking silently, Hermione assesses the situation. Wandless, two against one. Prefects’ bathroom to her right and a dead end beyond that. Her only exit lies left, where Pansy and Millicent stand hip to hip in the corridor, arms linked, grins smug. They exchange an amused glance and Hermione loses patience. She ignores the warning that’s curdling her belly and strides ahead. 

“Right,” Hermione mutters. “Right, well I’ll just – ” 

“You’ll just what?” Millicent’s towering frame blocks her path easily. “Goody-good Granger, off to blab to McGonagall again?” 

Oh for—is that what this is about, Hermione thinks crossly. Honestly, as if any Prefect would turn a blind eye to these two idiots terrorizing those tiny Hufflepuffs and besides—

 _Fuck_. Hermione winces as Millicent’s shoulder slams into hers, knocking her back a few paces. Her arms fly up in defence as they begin to shove her back and forth, passing Hermione lazily between them. 

“Stop it,” Hermione gasps, a creeping dread fizzing up her chest. 

“Relax,” laughs Millicent. “You’re so uptight Granger, honestly, don’t you know how to have any fun at all?” Hermione loses her balance as Millicent shunts her toward Pansy, who reaches out to grab Hermione by the shoulders. 

As she staggers against the castle wall, Hermione races through the fragments of wandless magic she’s read about, but not (yet) mastered. She considers making a break for it. She’d likely make it past Pansy, but Millicent’s a different story. A _Relashio_ might do it. If only she’d practiced more, Hermione frets. It’d be embarrassing to attempt a spell and fail, but of course there’s never any shame in learning. 

“ _Relash_ —” Hermione splutters, cut off by Millicent’s arm slinging around and flattening tight against her throat. 

“Remember that time I had you in a headlock?” Millicent reminisces, yanking Hermione back against her solid frame. 

Hermione does remember and she’s bloody furious. 

“Get your hands off me. Right now!”

“Oh, stop wriggling, Granger,” says Pansy in a bored tone. Hermione lunges forward, her washbag thudding to the castle floor forgotten as she wrenches an arm free. But Millicent’s grip is too tight and Pansy snatches at Hermione’s wrist, cramming her too-tightly between them. 

“I can see your nipples through that shirt, you know.”

They’re only saying it to embarrass her and, to her irritation, it’s working. Hermione’s cheeks flame. It’s a perfectly normal physiological response, Hermione’s well aware of that and so she refuses to acknowledge it. She holds herself back from making some futile attempt to cover up, not willing to give them the satisfaction of it, even as her skin crawls to see Pansy Parkinson leering at her chest. 

“Give me my wand back,” Hermione says tightly. 

Millicent’s laughter rumbles in Hermione’s ear. “Does your ginger Weasel get your nips all stiff like this?” 

“Shut up about Ron,” Hermione says, struggling in Millicent’s arms as she tries to evaluate her options. Millicent’s too strong and Hermione’s caught off balance. Give her a textbook and Hermione’ll master anything but in the quick of it, she still freezes up sometimes. Can’t decide on the best course of action. They’re utter cowards, both of them. As though she couldn’t best them in a fair duel any day, even two against one. 

“Do you let him play with your titties, Granger?” 

Taken aback by this vulgar brand of taunting, Hermione recoils as Pansy trails a finger along the underside of her breast. 

“Does he get you good and wet for it?” 

“Give me my wand,” Hermione repeats, her voice almost steady. They’ll get bored with jeering at her, bullies always do. 

“Or is only the Chosen Prick good enough for your golden snatch?” 

“Nah, I think they take turns, pass her back and forth—”

“Maybe they double team you, eh?” Millicent sniggers. 

Pansy hoots in delight. “That’s it! Potter sticks his prick up front, and he lets the Weasel have the back door.”

“You’re disgusting,” Hermione spits, furious that they’ve succeeded in riling her, despite her best efforts—and it’s not like she hasn’t had plenty of practice dealing with bullies, she thinks bitterly, remembering her lonely primary school years. 

“I think Goody Granger needs teaching a lesson, don’t you Millie?”

Pansy and Millicent share a gleeful, predatory glance and the mood takes an ominous turn. Hermione’s belly swoops as they wrestle her into an empty classroom a few doors from the Prefect’s bathroom. She’s no longer so certain they’ll stop at childish taunts, though neither can she imagine either of them truly getting their hands dirty. 

Despite Hermione’s kicks and struggles, she’s easily overpowered and finds herself gracelessly manoeuvred over a desk, face down, pinned effortlessly by Millicent who plants a single hand firmly between her shoulder blades. Not one to give up, Hermione thrashes weakly but Millicent simply gives her a great shove into the solid edge of the desk and Hermione grunts, finally falling still, the breath squeezed out of her. 

“McGonagall is going to be livid, you do realise,” she starts, but her conviction chokes into a horrified gasp as her pyjama bottoms are yanked down to her knees, leaving her bare-arsed and trembling. Her embarrassment evolves into fury, rising hot and quick. “You’re going to be in detention for weeks—months!” 

“Oh do shut the fuck up Granger.”

“Really, I thought you were supposed to be the brains of your perfect little trio,” snorts Pansy.

“Yeah, brightest witch, my arse.” 

“Let me go!”

Millicent gives a low laugh, shifting more weight against Hermione and making her hips ache as she’s pressed yet more firmly into the rough wooden desk. 

“Right,” Pansy says, “you think that’s a sound argument to make right now, do you? Let you go—what, so you can run straight to McGonagall? I don’t think so.”

The first heavy slap against her bare buttocks makes Hermione cry out. It _burns_. She swallows the whimper rising in the back of her throat, furiously blinking back tears as Pansy delivers several solid smacks with what Hermione surmises must be a wooden ruler from the dull thwacks resonating throughout the classroom. 

Though she’s shaking with rage and flush with humiliation, Hermione resolves to take the spanking stoically—much to Pansy’s growing irritation. Though her mouth hangs open and she struggles to breath, Hermione’s proud she manages not to let another gasp escape as Pansy draws her arm back and lands a relentless bout of vigorous smacks against Hermione’s tender thighs and buttocks.

She’s less successful when Millicent joins in with a second ruler, thicker and wider. Together they smack a flurry of red lines across Hermione’s pale cheeks. Pansy’s strikes are delivered in a brutal, flat rhythm that brings tears to Hermione’s eyes, but it’s Millicent’s unpredictable swats that have her panting, drawing in shaky breaths that are beginning to resemble little sobs. A sharp spank to the underside of her buttocks catches Hermione by surprise and she jerks forward, balancing on her toes to remain steady.

“Much better,” says Pansy approvingly, cracking the ruler over the same inflamed spot in a rat-a-tat rhythm, gleefully drawing up a deep red bruise. 

“Next time you think about tattling, I want you to remember how pink and hot your little bottom is right now.”

“I’m not frightened of the likes of _you_ , Parkinson,” Hermione bluffs, riding out the searing cracks of pain, body tensed in readiness for the next blow. 

Instead she’s granted an unexpected reprieve. Dizzy with relief, her arse flaming, Hermione’s utterly unprepared for what happens next. She doesn’t see Millicent wink at Pansy. And she certainly doesn’t notice Millicent conjure up enough lube to generously coat her index finger before she pokes it brusquely into Hermione’s arse. 

“You’re both going to get into so much trouble—oh!” Hermione’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring indignantly, mouth slack with shock.

“So that’s what it takes to shut know-it-all Granger up.” Pansy circles the desk to face Hermione, lip curled in sly satisfaction and Hermione can’t stand it, dropping her head in disbelief. For the first time, a note of uncertainty creeps into her voice.

“What—what are you doing?” she asks, pressing her hips painfully into the desk’s hard edge. Trying, desperately, to get away from Millicent’s squirming finger deep inside her arsehole. But Millicent pushes forward too, until her hand is flush against Hermione’s rear, finger deeply lodged. 

Pansy and Millicent exchange proud smirks, delighted to have finally punctured Hermione’s attempts at impassivity. 

“She’s so warm inside,” says Millicent, laughing. “Her little bumhole’s clenching like mad.”

“Get off me, right now, I mean it.” 

“Oh do you mean it, Granger?” Pansy laughs in Hermione’s face, admiring the red flush spreading from her neck down. “Well, that’s us told, Millie.”

Yet to Hermione’s surprise, Millicent withdraws her finger, pulling out slow and steady. Her respite doesn’t last long, however, as Hermione finds herself unceremoniously overturned, hissing as her sore arse grazes the desk’s verge, back throbbing as she’s spread out uncomfortably over the wooden surface. 

“You’re wet, Granger,” says Pansy, her eyes gleaming up at the discovery between Hermione’s thighs. “Filthy, dripping wet—is that from Millie’s finger up your bum?”

“Best poke it back up there, hadn’t I?” Millicent says cheerfully. “Since you like it so much.” And so Millicent does, yanking Hermione’s thighs further apart to press deeper still into her tight hole. 

“N-no,” Hermione stutters, but Millicent pays no mind and drags her finger out leisurely, circling Hermione’s rim and plunging merrily back inside. 

“Pans, look, it’s like she’s sucking me right back in,” Millicent marvels. 

“Do all the Gryffindor girls like it up the bum Granger, or is it just you?” Pansy asks with a leer, hiking up Hermione’s shirt to bare her breasts. Hermione’s panic solidifies, a heavy lump in her stomach as Pansy idly strokes the tips of her nipples until they stiffen, giving one a vicious tweak that makes Hermione flinch, curling her hands tightly into trembling fists. 

The stretch and burn of the intrusion is becoming unbearable, and the shock of the onslaught is still reeling through Hermione’s body as she tries to sit up, tries fruitlessly to push them off. But it’s no use. Millicent barely acknowledges her efforts, easily forcing Hermione back down and fucking into her with renewed vigour.

“How’s the view from up there, Pans?” 

“Her tits aren’t bad, I suppose,” Pansy muses, playing with them and giving Hermione’s nipples a quick tug, “but there’s nothing like seeing her swotty face light up red while you fuck her know-it-all arse—go on, slip her another.”

Their cackles ring in her ears and Hermione can’t help it, she clenches, hard, but of course Millicent prevails, clearly enjoying the resistance as she pushes and prods, squirming a second thick finger between Hermione’s cheeks.

Eyes falling closed, Hermione tries to process and simultaneously detach from the unfamiliar sensations in her body. It seemed horribly evident that, for the moment at least, she was powerless to stop them. Worse even than that, however, was the blow to her ego. For Hermione wasn’t used to this inability to think her way out of a thorny situation. 

“All right, swotty, if you can come like this—come just on Mill’s fingers up your tight little bottom—maybe we’ll let you go.”

Despite her best efforts, Hermione can’t hide her dismay. She tries to consider her options, but the thoughts won’t connect properly, looping and trailing off in a way she’s unaccustomed to, everything dominated by Pansy’s relentless pinching and squeezing, and the thick fullness of Millicent’s fingers, inexorable inside her. 

“How can I trust you’ll let me go?”

“You can’t,” says Pansy brightly, “but it makes no odds to me—say Mill, have you still got that nice fat dildo from your last owl order?”

“Why yes I do! It’ll fit perfectly up this Gryffindor bum.” 

On cue, Millicent produces a thick, curved red dildo from inside her robes, the size of which makes Hermione’s stomach tighten in alarm. 

“Fine!” 

“What’s that, Granger?”

“I said, I’ll do it,” Hermione hisses. 

“Do speak up, Goody Granger. What exactly are you going to do?”

Heart twisting, Hermione grits out, “I’ll make myself—come.” Hermione’s no prude. She’s read several of her mum’s dodgy romance novels on the sly, not to mention she’s always had a healthy imagination. It’s only at the final word she falters, embarrassed to say such things aloud. 

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Drawing in a tearful breath, Hermione slides a tentative hand between her legs, dismayed by the slickness she finds there. By now, Millicent is churning three fingers into her arse with abandon. Hermione’s aghast to find that there’s a distasteful sort of pleasure to be had from stroking herself, fingers slipping over her clit in unwanted synergy with Millicent’s staccato thrusts. 

To Hermione’s shame, it doesn’t take long for those familiar layers of pressure to build up in the base of her spine, spreading low in her abdomen, thighs shaking. She’s close, almost painfully so and the last thing she wants is to orgasm, but her body is swollen and wet and ready for it. She slows, trying to delay the inevitable, but Pansy barks another demand.

“Poke it out for us Granger, it’s no fun if we can’t see.”

“Wh—what?” 

“Ooh yes,” Millicent says with a grin, “show us that pink little clitty.”

Somehow, even after all that’s happened, Hermione’s still shocked by the lewdness of the command. Tears threaten to slip as she parts her labia with one hand, pulling her folds back to expose her clitoris. 

“Ohh. Not so little, I see,” Pansy gloats. “Looks like you’re ready to pop, Granger—don’t stop now.”

Hermione’s no stranger to masturbation, but she’s never touched herself in quite this way before. Spread apart like this, her clit feels extra sensitive, sparking new and deeper sensations which are only further intensified by the dully relentless arse-fucking. She can’t hold it off now and it’s not long before she comes, stifling a panicked sob. 

The aftermath is brisk and brutal. 

Millicent yanks her hand away in one rough motion, leaving Hermione empty and twinging, but before she can even register this, her wrists are knotted together roughly beneath the desk, legs splayed apart and seized with invisible bonds. 

“She’ll need her wand back of course,” says Millicent. 

Pansy agrees, twirling Hermione’s wand between her fingertips. “But we can’t have you casting ‘til we’ve gone I’m afraid.”

Hermione’s eyes widen in disbelief as Pansy slots the wooden handle neatly into her arse, taking evident pleasure in this new violation. 

“Now every spell you cast’ll remind you of the time you got righteously fucked up the arse with your precious wand,” she says happily, giving it a few pumps for good measure before ensuring it’s fully seated, ignoring Hermione’s strangled cry of frustration. 

“And if that doesn’t teach you not to run crying to the teacher,” says Pansy, “this ought to do it.”

Hermione looks on, bleary-eyed as Pansy unreels a scroll of parchment with an unusual tinted glow to its edges. Ever curious, Hermione leans forward to watch Pansy extract a silvery spark from her forehead and transfer it to the parchment. She lets out a horrified moan as the spark swirls and flutters, taking the shape of Hermione’s spread legs, hand shuddering between her thighs. A second spark follows, this one rendering the initial violation of her anus, Millicent’s finger plunging between her cheeks again and again as the image loops incessantly. Another shows off the wand quivering in Hermione’s bum from a particularly unflattering angle. A shiver of sparks spill from Pansy’s brain, generating a thick wad of parchment. 

“I trust you’re sensible enough to keep this between us?” 

Hermione gapes at her, unable to muster a response, and so Pansy flips through the sheaf, drawing a page seemingly at random. “Oh! I love this one, don’t you Millie?” 

Hermione can no longer contain the hot rush of tears. In the memory-graph, Hermione’s eyes are closed in concentration, hand working furiously at her clit as Millicent plows into her, Pansy whispering in her ear and stroking her nipples almost tenderly. The scene Pansy’s constructed makes it look consensual. Like she’s enjoying herself. Sick with defeat, unable to conjure another viable option, Hermione gives a shaky nod. 

“Excellent! So pleased we’ve come to an understanding. And if you want to get your hands free, all you need to do is pop your wand back out and it’ll trigger the spell.” Pansy flutters a vague gesture from Hermione’s wand-filled arse to her bound wrists, as though it’s self-explanatory. 

Hermione’s brow creases.

Red-faced and reluctant, she says, “But… I don’t understand.”

A slow, crooked smile spreads across Pansy’s face. She gives the base of Hermione’s wand a quick tap, and Millicent does the same, making sure it’s firmly embedded. 

Hermione inhales a shaky sob, allowing herself to cry. From the life-altering moment she’d opened the crisp parchment of her first Hogwarts letter, Hermione been so excited, so proud to be a witch. The scene in Ollivander’s rushes back to her, the moment the wand chose _her_ and it all became real, she was actually going to do magic. She could never have imagined the conduit to her power being used against her so callously. The humiliating jab of her own wand burrowed deep inside her bottom, the elegantly carved handle protruding between her inflamed cheeks…

Pansy gives Hermione a fond little look as she makes her way to the door, Millicent in tow. 

“You’re a clever girl, Granger,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll work it out—eventually.”


End file.
